


Sloom

by yolkipalki



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Cold Weather, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Happy Ending, Financial Issues, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Guilt, Guitars, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Modern AU, Mommy Issues, NO BETA WE DIE LIKE NO ONE DOES IN THIS FIC BECAUSE I AM CAPABLE OF WRITING THINGS OTHER THAN MCD, Not THAT Kind of Shower Scene You Horny Dogs, Protective Lambert (The Witcher), Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Sick Fic, Silence, Triss Merigold - Freeform, Whump, Winter, shower scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkipalki/pseuds/yolkipalki
Summary: See notes at the end for additional tags that WILL contain spoilers.Days and nights blended together, not helped by the darkened sky and heavy snowfall. Geralt passed them in silence. For a while Jaskier clung to Geralt’s every breath, every movement, waiting for the confrontation. Waiting for goodbye. But it never came. They settled into some sort of horrid pattern. Jaskier would wait quietly for Geralt to come home and when he did Jaskier would try desperately to connect in some way, any way, and eventually, Geralt would fall asleep. This morning he had told himself that tonight was going to be different.Modern AU about insomnia, relationships, mental illness, and love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	Sloom

**SLOOM**

**by Lemon**

* * *

* * *

The door flung open and slammed against the wall, leaving a fist-sized hole where the doorknob collided with the plaster. It trapped the door wide open. Geralt flipped the lightswitch and for a brief moment it was quiet. 

“God fucking damn it Jaskier. Why-” His fist collided with the wall opposite the fresh hole made from the doorknob. 

Jaskier stirred from his state of not-quite actual sleep to the violent commotion on the other side of the door. It was dark and cold and it had felt like he had been alone for days. Jaskier couldn’t find his phone, his wallet, or keys, couldn't stomach the thought of eating, couldn't seem to sleep, despite being exhausted. When he stood his muscles burned and ached and his hands felt numb when he tried to play the guitar or write. So eventually he had given up, huddling in the dark of their apartment in a nest of old blankets and dwarfed in Geralt’s sweatshirt. When he heard Geralt’s rather dramatic and brooding entrance into the flat he did his best to push himself off the mattress on the floor and made for the bedroom door. He stopped when he heard a voice.

“Geralt, I know this is a bad time with everything going on…” It sounded like Triss. Jaskier had met her several times and immediately decided that he rather liked Triss. She was bold, fiery, and quite frankly, drop-dead gorgeous. She worked as a secretary for some corporate mogul, some guy Geralt had done some private security work for recently. He needed to remember to have Geralt invite her over for dinner some time. 

_Wait. Everything going on?_

Geralt said nothing but Jaskier heard him sigh and couldn’t help but tense. 

“It’s fucking freezing in here.” When he didn’t respond her tone quipped, chiding him. “Is the power off?” Triss huffed as she flicked the light switch again and again, illustrating the lack of electricity in the apartment. Geralt muttered something about getting paid on Wednesday and she cried out in indignation. “How much is it? No, don’t you _dare_ look at me like that. Geralt, you are going to freeze to death. I don’t care if you spent your youth swimming naked in the Baltic sea or whatever. Just let me pay the fucking electric. It’s nine degrees Fahrenheit outside. That’s like...what negative ten celsius?” 

“About negative thirteen.” He corrected quietly. 

“You’re not helping your case, big guy. It’s cold as tits in here.”

All was silent for a moment. The empty ringing of the walls was nearly deafening. Jaskier scooted himself up the mattress to lean against the wall, still wrapped in blankets. His eyes blurred and burned with exhaustion. He wanted to get out of the bed, scramble across the worn carpet, and to the hallway to ask what the fuck was going on, but he didn’t have it within him, so he simply sat and listened.

“I’m serious, Geralt. Ex-Gestapo or not, you’re still a man and people freeze to death in warmer conditions than this.” 

“GROM, Triss. Not...not even _close_ to Gestapo.” Jaskier could hear the faintest flitter of laughter in his tired voice.

“Look, how long have I known you?” She didn’t wait for him to answer before continuing. “Damn it, with…” Her voice grew quiet and solemn. “Considering everything with Jaskier, the least I can do is fucking pay the electric bill for you so you don’t freeze to death in your sleep.” She must’ve sensed his protest because she picked up again.

Jaskier heard a sigh and the heavy footfall of boots, the rustling of papers as Geralt retrieved the paper bill for Triss. 

“Here.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Her breath shook and she sniffled. “Oh, Geralt.” 

And for reasons Jaskier could not understand Triss was crying, the rustling sound of paper mingling with her quiet sobs.

* * *

The nights stretched on and the silence quickly became suffocating. Jaskier had always known Geralt to be a man of few words but this was something else entirely. Some nights passed without a single word or glance and he was sure that it was slowly killing him. He needed Geralt right now, but how do you ask for more from someone who has already given you everything?

A flash of lightning distracted him. As the thunderstorms raged outside, Jaskier tried not to think about how it would all be ice by daybreak. He let himself get lost in the rolling thunder and the relentless rain that pounded against the windows. He couldn't get comfortable and nothing seemed to help. He tossed and turned somewhere between sleep and the waking world, only becoming vaguely aware of it when Geralt quietly came to bed. He was still fully clothed and exhausted, he had been gone all day again. This time Jaskier didn’t bother to ask where he had gone, he never answered anyway. Despite all of the tension between them, he felt the tight ache in his chest ease just a little with the warmth of Geralt’s back against his icy skin. But it soured oh so quickly as he thought about what Triss had said days ago. 

_Considering everything with Jaskier..._

That meant that Triss must have known. Which meant Geralt must have told her. The only way that Triss could know is if Geralt had told her...which meant that Geralt was talking to her, opening up to her, and not to him. He didn’t mind Geralt confiding in his friends, in fact, he often encouraged it but this was _about_ him. It was about him and Geralt wouldn’t even speak to him much less address the problem. He was at a loss for what to do. He knew his sleeplessness, his anxiety, his unsteady employment, his general inability to eat or sleep or get his fucking hands to stop shaking like he was some sort of crackhead, all of which prevented him from making any money from said unsteady employment...they weighed on Geralt, though he never would say. Jaskier wasn’t stupid, he knew how tight money was, knew how tough things were, how long the hours, how cold the nights, how isolating.

“Geralt...I...are you okay?” He wanted to hear it from Geralt himself. Wanted Geralt to have the courage, the respect, to say whatever the _‘everything’_ was to his face. 

Geralt just huffed, and then almost frantically scrambled to check his phone when it began to vibrate. Apparently whoever it was wasn’t the call he was waiting for because he dropped the phone back on the carpet with a thud and let it ring until it went to voicemail. He rolled his shoulders, slumping into a painful-looking hunch. Sitting there for a time, eventually, he ran his hand over his face and pulled two prescription bottles from beneath his pillow. Geralt pulled one from the first bottle and two from the other twisted the lids back on and tucked them safely under his pillow once more. He rolled the pills over again and again in his hand. Almost imperceptibly quiet, Geralt began humming. Immediately, Jaskier recognized it. It was his least favorite composition, one he had written years ago during his brief time at university. So deep was his hatred for that song that he had outright banned Geralt from humming, quoting, singing, or even thinking about it. Part of him always assumed that Geralt only brought it up to get under his skin in the first place but the way he was humming now made him question that. The melody fell off suddenly and Geralt sat, still holding the pills in the palm of his hand as though they were made of glass, as though they weighed a thousand pounds in his palm. Jaskier reached out and set a hand on his shoulder and Geralt’s head dropped as if all the strength that held him upright and kept his muscles and bones taut inside of him was suddenly gone. His muscles tightened and his skin pricked as he pulled away ever-so-slightly from Jaskier’s touch. 

It was quiet for a moment and Geralt turned around and reached right past him to set the pills on the book that lay beside Jaskier’s pillow, a tattered old book of poetry and lyrics, nearly full now.

“Don’t forget your meds.” Geralt nearly choked on the whispered words. “You’re shit at remembering them.”

Geralt fell asleep rather quickly while Jaskier lay reeling in thought. He lay beside Geralt as he slept; wide awake, neck aching, eyes burning from exhaustion, and utterly unable to sleep. Several times he nearly woke Geralt, but part of him hoped that Geralt would wake from the much-needed sleep feeling rested and possibly more - well, he wasn’t quite sure, to be honest. Maybe he had hoped that when Geralt awoke things would be better, if only just slightly. 

Jaskier padded around the flat, lacking the willpower or the energy to do much other than sit for a while in one place or another, slowly unraveling, lost in thought. The only sound was the occasional buzz of Geralt’s phone. Geralt seemed to be rather popular at the moment, and Jaskier wondered if it had anything to do with his _‘everything’_. 

Geralt slept for nearly sixteen hours barely stirring. When he finally awoke, it was to the light shining harshly in his face through the crack between the windowsill and the blanket he had pinned over the window. Jaskier turned from where he sat in the corner of the room, leaning against the cold wall, picking absentmindedly at the cheap paint that peeled and stretched along the seams. 

He watched as Geralt stretched his arms and let his right hand fall to rest for a moment on Jaskier’s unoccupied pillow. His hair was dirty, his face unshaven, and he had been wearing the same clothes down to the socks, for at least two days now. Jaskier repeated the words again and again in his head as though rehearsing, waiting for the right moment. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Jaskier would say when Geralt would finally wake and free him from the prison of the quiet and his own thoughts. 

But before the right moment came Geralt rolled away from the corner where Jaskier sat and yanked the phone from the plug in the wall. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he quickly thumbed through the messages and voicemails before dismissing them all, unanswered. Shrugging on his jacket and sliding his feet into his boots he was out the door without a word. 

* * *

Days and nights blended together, not helped by the darkened sky and heavy snowfall. Geralt passed them in silence. For a while Jaskier clung to Geralt’s every breath, every movement, waiting for the confrontation. Waiting for goodbye. But it never came. They settled into some sort of horrid pattern. Jaskier would wait quietly for Geralt to come home and when he did Jaskier would try desperately to connect in some way, any way, and eventually, Geralt would fall asleep, with or without the assistance of excessive amounts of alcohol. This morning he had told himself that tonight was going to be different, that he was going to make dinner tonight or at least brew some fucking coffee, toast a pop tart, anything...so that Geralt wouldn’t have to. But for one reason or another, one he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he hadn’t even managed to leave their room. A hot, prickling shame washed over him, tears stinging his already burning eyes as his empty stomach churned. 

In the throes of his paralyzing insomnia, it all smeared into one long and horrid dreamlike state of overwhelming emotion. Jaskier was slowly drowning in it. 

Geralt stood in the kitchen, dropping the mail on the counter and checking the philodendron’s soil. He didn’t bother to turn the lights on as he kicked off his boots. Catching sight of the doorway where Jaskier stood, he turned back to the kitchen without a word. Jaskier wanted to say something, but what to say? 

_Hey, sorry I was going to make dinner but then I didn’t. Haha. Sorry about that._

So he just watched, chewing on his chapped lips as Geralt padded across the kitchen to the fridge, pausing briefly to train his eyes on the dark linoleum of the kitchen floor as if gathering the energy. He pulled his shirt over his head and let it drop from his hand to the floor in the kitchen. Opening the fridge and the freezer, his head dropped at the sight of them, nearly empty. An old box of takeout was tipped over in the back of the fridge, spilling chilled brown sauce all over the glass shelf and the ripped open bag of carrots, which were now withered and turning a lovely shade of black. The freezer contained little more than a couple of bags of frostbitten vegetables shoved in the corner collecting ice crystals. Geralt rested his head on the door in his hands and grabbed the half-drunk bottle of vodka from the freezer. The bottle swayed as if the neck would slip from his grasp at any moment.

The yellow light of the streetlamps from outside illuminated the scars on his back. Jaskier resisted the urge to reach out to him, to go to him and run his fingers along the scars, to trace them like rivers that cut through mountains, to bury his head in the valley between Geralt's shoulder blades and pull him close. Instead, he swallowed the knot in his throat and spoke. He had nearly fooled himself into thinking his composure watertight but before he finished the first sentence he was already unraveling, barely able to understand the words tumbling from his mouth. 

“Please, Geralt...talk to me. Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out like this. I’m worried about you. You’re...you’re not well. And... I know that it’s hard right now and that I’m not in the best place. I know that it’s tough because...fuck...I can’t eat, I can’t focus on anything, God, I feel like I haven’t slept in fucking _weeks_ and I’m losing my mind. But I’m worried about you and-” 

Jaskier jumped, unable to fight the tears that sprang to his eyes as Geralt’s fist collided with the fridge. The icemaker, long since frozen over sent frostbitten chunks of ice skittering across the scratched linoleum. Jaskier watched him, standing in the center of the short hall hoping Geralt would at least glance at him. He glanced forward, his eyes were red. Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was the exhaustion or if Geralt had been crying. He was inclined to exclude the latter considering that he was unsure if Geralt had ever cried in his entire life. Jaskier watched him disappear into the bathroom and through the walls, he could hear the pipes creak and moan as the shower sputtered on. 

An old, and rather inefficient design, their shower had no walls or doors. It sat in the far corner on a slightly raised tile platform that led to a drain in the center of the small bathroom floor. Something about the distance that had grown between them made it feel wrong to watch Geralt as he pulled his clothes off and tossed them aside carelessly. Jaskier turned his back, catching Geralt’s reflection out of the corner of his eye. He waited a moment, too scared to ask, too scared to be shut down or simply ignored. He heard Geralt step on the platform and with a heavy sigh, sit under the hot water that sputtered from the old showerhead. Jaskier watched him for a moment as the water pulled Geralt’s hair into his face. Reverently, hesitantly, and still fully clothed, Jaskier walked around to sit behind him, pressing his back into Geralt’s and feeling the hot water run down his hoodie to his frigid skin. God, he was always so fucking cold nowadays. He told himself that this time he would just let it be, that he wouldn’t say anything. That he wouldn’t brutalize the peace, the silence with his anxious apologies and justifications, with his empty promises that he was doing so much better now and that things wouldn't get this bad again. Reassurances that they both recognized for what they were, a desperate plea for Geralt to stay, and the paralyzing fear that he wouldn't.

Geralt took another swig from the bottle of vodka, now nearly empty, his knees held to his chest, hot water flushing his skin a bright red. 

"Jask." He whispered, barely loud enough to hear. "I...I don’t think that I can do this. I thought I could. I thought...I thought I was strong enough but...I just don't know how much more of this I can take." So for a while, they sat like that, the squeal of the shower filling their ears. They leaned against each other, and as the scalding water began to cool Jaskier could feel the muscles in Geralt's back tense. "Fuck. I'm tired, Jask and I don't know what to do. I want to make it better and I can't. I-"

Geralt hissed as the suddenly frigid water ran down his back and neck. He jumped up and smacked the faucet, turning off the water. He stood for a moment, naked, steam dancing around the bathroom before he hurled the bottle at the wall. Jaskier jumped as it shattered. He waited for Geralt to say something, anything. But he simply pulled on his underwear and hoodie he had been wearing for days now, not bothering to towel off. Jaskier watched Geralt walk past and closed the door to the bedroom behind him, Jaskier soaked and freezing, still on the other side.

* * *

Geralt came home early, midday. But it seemed he wasn’t staying. He had barged into the apartment, went straight to shower, scrubbing himself down and putting on deodorant, and donning clean clothing all in some sort of exhausted, frantic pace. His phone was still buzzing incessantly and Jaskier wondered why he didn’t just turn the damn thing off if he refused to answer anyone. But something in the frantic way that Geralt would check every message before dismissing them unanswered made him wonder if he was waiting for something. It was almost sunset now, the winter bringing the dark earlier with every passing day. Geralt pulled on his boots and made for the door. It seemed he would leave once more without another word, apparently only coming back home to make himself _somewhat_ presentable. Jaskier was weighing whether or not this was the weirdest thing that Geralt had done in the past...however long when Geralt broke the silence. The sound was so jarring, so unexpected, that it made him jump.

“Julian Alfred…” The name was whispered like a prayer and with those two simple words, Jaskier found himself crying. Geralt was the only person he would allow to call him that. And Geralt took that very seriously. He had only called him Julian a precious handful of times, Julian Alfred was even rarer. He reserved the use of the name for special occasions when he was exceedingly furious, deeply affectionate, or hopelessly in love. 

Jaskier wondered which it was now.

“...Julian...you...” Geralt swallowed hard, his voice a mix of exhaustion and something that Jaskier couldn’t quite place. Jaskier held his breath, as if blinking the wrong way may scare Geralt back into withdrawing. “You really shouldn’t own plants.” He cleared his throat, smoothing over the ripples of emotion. “You love them to death and then you forget about them completely, letting them wither and die. And...by the time you try to save them, it’s too late.” His fingers ran tenderly over the brown, dried leaves of the philodendron. Geralt didn’t turn back to look at Jaskier, who called his name quietly. Instead, he began to carefully pluck the dead leaves from the stems and set them on the counter, grabbing a glass from beside the sink and filling it with water for the poor houseplant.

Jaskier opened his mouth to respond, but what could he say? Geralt was right, of course. He would buy a peace lily or a fern simply because of its beauty, fully intending to care for the thing. Inevitably at some point, he would fall out of the habit of watering it, or he’d overwater it forgetting he had already tended to it that day. Either way, the plant would die, rapidly or slowly. This philodendron on the kitchen counter, that sat precariously on a stack of unopened mail, had been alive longer than all of its leafy predecessors. Even now with nearly all of its leaves pale and dried, it clung desperately to life. He stepped forward, reaching for Geralt’s shoulder when there was a knock at the door. Instinctually he shied away, backing up to the wall and leaning into it.

The deadbolt clicked. In the silence that had flooded the flat for so long, the small and insignificant sound was deafening. Geralt opened the door and his shoulders tensed. 

“What are you doing here?” Geralt’s voice broke, dead and dry. He sounded tired and defensive. Jaskier swallowed hard. Geralt must not want them involved with the _‘everything’_ any more than he wanted Jaskier involved.Geralt would rather suffer in silence. Something sour swelled in the back of his throat.

As the door opened wider he was surprised to see Eskel standing in the doorway. The deep, gnarled scars that tore through the right side of his face were bright red and flush from the frigid winter air. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking the snowfall from his head before shoving his fists into the pockets of his worn leather jacket and eliciting a whine of protest from Lambert who stood beside him. Jaskier was more than a little surprised to see Geralt’s brothers. Last he heard they were living about nine hours away and that didn’t take into account the unprecedented weather.

“Wow, not quite the reception I was hoping for after driving like five hundred fucking miles to get here.” Eskel teased, forcing a half-smile as he gripped Geralt’s shoulder tight. His expression was unreadable, cautious, and guarded. Geralt sighed, running a hand over his face. Without a word he let go of the door, leaving it wide open. Eskel let himself in, walking past Geralt.

Jaskier leaned against the corner of the small kitchen unit, folding his arms tight across his chest. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself as he heard a rather loud, wet sniffle. He spotted Lambert as he stepped inside, his eyes trained on the floor intently. The young man’s lips were drawn in a taut scowl, a rather poor attempt to hold together his overwhelming emotions. His eyes were red and swollen and his hands clenched a paper fast food bag as if it were a lifeline. He slipped off his snow-soaked sneakers and pushed the door shut with his foot before trailing off after Geralt, utterly silent. Lambert never missed an opportunity at a biting joke. Jaskier’s arms fell from where they hugged his chest and he reached out as if to grab Lambert by the shoulder but stopped as Lambert prickled ducking his head and hurrying after Geralt. Eskel lingered in the entryway, turning to look over his shoulder, his eyes met Jaskier for a hair’s length before he turned away. Following after Geralt into the bedroom, they shut the door behind them. Jaskier could hear Geralt toss himself on the lumpy, creaking mattress that lay stripped bare on their bedroom floor, could hear him sigh deeply, his breath wavering.

“Well?” Geralt asked finally. There was a long pause, Jaskier imagined he was looking over his brother’s with that same incredulous look that he so often gave Jaskier. “Hell of a drive for Taco Bell.”

The paper bag rustled and Lambert spoke. “Merigold filled us in, gave us your address too since you won’t pick up your fucking phone, you prick. Here, I think it’s like a five-layer or something? It’s the one without lettuce.” 

Geralt muttered empty thanks to his brother but Jaskier didn’t hear him unwrap it. The awkward silence stretched painfully on, only punctuated by Lambert’s occasional sniffle or crunch as he at least marginally attempted not to spill shredded cheese and lettuce all over the carpet. No comment about the bare mattress on the floor, about the pile of laundry in the corner, or Jaskier’s half-drunk cans of red bull placed precariously on surfaces throughout the barren flat. Not a word. Finally, Eskel broke the silence.

“How is he?” 

_He_? Were they talking about him? Jaskier’s heart dropped into his stomach and he fought the urge to fling the door open and barge into the conversation that he was obviously unwelcome in. He knew his restlessness, the sleepless nights, panic attacks, and the long hours of silence had been...tough on Geralt. But he was trying, god he was trying so fucking hard and-

The silence had shifted from a tense apprehension to one drenched in sorrow and agitation. 

“No change.” Geralt said finally, his voice low and soft as if the words were painful.

The silence prevailed once more, shifting into something else. Something that Jaskier couldn’t quite pin down.

“Geralt-”

“Don’t.” Geralt growled, the atmosphere quickly souring and humming with hostility. “Save it, Eskel. I know what you’re going to say and I don’t want to hear it.” He grunted as he stood from the mattress on the floor. “Look...I appreciate that you drove all the way out here and thanks for the...the cold burrito but-” 

"Geralt, this is destroying you," Eskel said, a softness to his voice, a distinct ache that Jaskier had never heard before.

Eskel and Lambert were Geralt’s foster brothers and the bond they had was deeper than blood. They had become family to Jaskier over the years. He would do anything for them, which made the pain even more bitter and deep to hear the words and the implication behind them. 

Had they given up on him? They felt that they needed to protect Geralt from him. He was too much, had always been too much, and yet somehow he was never enough either.

He had overstayed his welcome and leaned too heavily on the arms that caught him when he fell and finally it was too much. Everyone has a breaking point, he would say to Geralt. And Geralt had reached his breaking point. 

“It’s not fucking fair,” Lambert interjected, his previous stillness shattering in anger and indignation. 

Eskel muttered something and Lambert flung the door to the bedroom open, storming directly past Jaskier and out the door. 

“He just needs to cool off,” Eskel said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Geralt hummed thoughtfully and took the hand that Eskel held out to him. His brother pulled him from where he sat on the floor and into a tight hug. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this but just listen to me. It’s time to let it go, Geralt. Let him go. We’ll be with you when you do.” His voice was so soft and so quiet that Geralt almost broke. He nodded into his brother’s shoulder, holding him tight for a moment before Eskel pulled away. 

Jaskier wanted to barge in and shout at them but he just stood there, leaning against the wall and begging his knees to hold him upright.

“I better go after Lambert. Take your time and we’ll meet when you’re ready.” 

On his way out Eskel passed the untouched guitar that sat gathering dust in the corner of their bedroom. He set his hand on the stock and huffed. Jaskier shied away from Eskel as he walked out into the entry hall, hiding around the corner. He couldn’t bring himself to face them, shame welling in his chest. It always came to this, everything beautiful that life had given him, he’d ruined. Worrying, fidgeting, and fiddling with it until it broke. He was a fool to think this would be any different, that Geralt was any different. The only difference was that he loved Geralt more than he had ever loved anyone before, so this time, it felt like hell, it felt like dying. 

* * *

_Geralt had spent most of his shift thinking about Jaskier. His panic attacks were getting worse, nightmares more violent, and sleeplessness more frequent. He had no idea how to help, how to fix it. So he brought home Chinese takeout, more expensive than their usual dollar menu...significantly. But he knew Jaskier loved the food from Painted Flower and having semi-authentic Shanghainese food always got him talking about his childhood summers spent in the coastal city. Geralt had found, over the few years, they had lived together, that Jaskier’s happiness was fleeting and fragile and composed of the smallest, most seemingly insignificant things. Forehead kisses, cold steamed buns, and cabbage, cheap champagne in old jam jars, rainstorms. Geralt had spent so much of his life alone that it was hard for him to understand someone like Jaskier, who needed reassurance and attention far more often than he did. But truth be told he didn’t mind._

* * *

Silently and slowly Geralt prepared once more to leave the apartment. He walked to Jaskier’s side of the bed and picked up the notebook, letting the handful of untouched pills spill to the floor to rest on the carpet.

“What do you say we go for a walk, Jask?” He said as he clung to the book, the guitar in its case already slung over his shoulder. 

Jaskier would never have called himself agoraphobic, in fact, he normally spent most of his time wandering the streets and shops. But as he donned his shoes and coat and followed behind Geralt to the door, his heart began to race and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into the dark corners of the apartment and hide away. But he took a breath and stepped forward. He wasn’t going to let it end like this. 

* * *

No one ever stopped in this city, too busy to be bothered by what went on around them. Beggars became part of the scenery, and stray animals wove in and out of foot traffic unnoticed. It was the same today as it had always been. Geralt thought about that as he thumbed the notebook in his pocket and adjusted the strap of the guitar case slung over his back. 

_They sat on the kitchen floor as they tore into the containers. Jaskier was practically beaming, looking at Geralt with an appreciative smile and as he lifted the chopsticks to his mouth he stopped his expression shifting into something confused, anxious._

_“Fuck. Geralt. What time is it?”_

_Geralt pulled his phone from his pocket._

_“Four fifteen, why?”_

_“Fuck. Oh-ho-ho shit.” Jaskier set the food down, dropping the chopsticks and frantically scrambling into their room. He hopped out, pulling his pants on before darting back in to grab two mismatched, dirty socks from the laundry in the corner of the room._

_“Where the fuck are-”_

_“It’s the fifth Geralt.” He moaned. “I didn’t get paid till last night, which means we’re late on electric, which means we can’t pay online, which means I need to go right now or I won’t make it to the Liquor King to pay it before they close the bill pay at five, which means they’re going to shut off our power, which means we are going to freeze to death.” Geralt opened his mouth to protest as Jaskier hopped around the room, pulling his boots on. Jaskier knew him too well. “No, don’t. I’ll have none of that. You literally just got off work and this is completely my fault, it just slipped my mind. I am so sorry. If I go right now I can get there before they close though. I need to borrow your jacket. I have no idea where mine is.” Geralt rolled his eyes as Jaskier pulled his coat from the hook and shrugged it on. Patting his pockets to make sure he had what he needed, Jaskier pulled the paper bill from the stack of papers by the front door and smiled at Geralt. He brushed his hair from his eyes and shot Geralt a charming, boyish smile before throwing the door open. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”_

* * *

The walk was long and unfamiliar, which Jaskier found rather odd considering he had traipsed over nearly every inch of the city. Pushing through crowds of people, and weaving between buildings and side streets they finally arrived at a glass door to a tall building, the sky turning brilliant pinks and purples as the sun began to set. He would’ve loved to sit on the fire escape with Geralt and watch it set and his heart ached at the thought that they may never do so again. Maudlin as ever, he stewed in thoughts of sunsets and sunrises they had shared as he heard the door click and buzz and Geralt pushed it open. Jaskier clung to the hood of his coat as Geralt wove through the crowded, bustling hallway, terrified of getting lost. 

They stopped suddenly and turned into a small room, pulling a curtain back.

* * *

_Geralt hadn’t initially been worried. It would have been far more concerning if Jaskier had arrived promptly home when he claimed he would. He was known for getting distracted, getting lost, and having conversations about nothing and everything all at once with strangers, riding the subway with him was a nightmare. Geralt snickered thinking about how much trouble he got himself in as he watched the digital clock on his phone turn from 16:59 to 17:00. With a whirr the power shut off, the apartment going dark. The cold takeout still sat untouched in front of him._

* * *

Jaskier stared at the tape and tubing that covered the lower half of his face, running from his mouth to monitors and machines. He was pale, his skin rice paper thin and mottled with bruises, hair unkempt and uncut, falling over his brow and tumbling into his eyes. It seemed as though his fragile body was held together with plastic, cables, gauze, and tape. Tubes hissed, as sensors whirred and clicked in steady rhythms, machines beeped. 

Geralt walked around and sat in the chair that had been positioned by the head of the bed. He reached out and grabbed hold of Jaskier’s hand. 

“Sorry I was gone so long, you’ll never believe who came by.” 

**_No, no, no._ **

**_Wait._ **

**_This couldn't be, this...this wasn’t right._ **

**_It wasn’t._ **

Jaskier’s lungs burned as they seized, unable to breathe more than paltry, shallow gasps which made his head swim and his stomach flip. He clutched his chest as pain shattered like glass sending fire splintering through his nerves. Instinctually he took a step back, his breath hitching in his throat. He fought against the urge to recoil, to run. His hands shook violently as he reached for the hand of the man who lay in the bed, _his_ hand. As his own hands came into view they dripped with blood. Still, he reached for the hand. It was pale and thin, taped and tubed and bandaged but before he could reach it he doubled over, retching violently. 

The discordant wailing of monitors and machines filled his ears, drowning out the rest of the world until all he could feel was the cold. A cold so deep it burned like fire against his skin.

**_I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to keep the heat on, mate. You know it’s fucking cold outside._ **

_The taste of blood, the thickness in his lungs, it burned as he coughed and it shot up his nose, spluttering out of his mouth and staining the snow, fat tears rolling down his face and into the slush below him._

_For a moment he thought he might drown in it._

_He tried to turn his head but he couldn’t, breaths coming more ragged, unable to stop the blood from welling in his throat and lungs, he let it spill from his nose and mouth and sting as it cooled against his skin in the frigid wind, rattling as he gasped through it._

**_I’m just trying to keep the heat on._ **

_Panic and fear and then humming sleepiness. As if slipping into warm water it all began to numb. It started at his spasming fingers, tingling as it flushed up through his arms and legs. He would’ve fought it but the relief was so sweet, and he couldn’t quite remember why he was trying so hard to stay awake. He let it take him._

**_It’s cold. Oh god, it’s so cold._ **

* * *

_Geralt stepped briskly onto the street and saw the small crowd of people standing at the end of the block something squirmed in his gut. He wasn’t sure he ever made the conscious decision to run but he found himself running._ _The people stood like bronze statues gathered in prayer, snow collecting on their shoulders and heads. Eerily silent._ _Geralt pushed past numbly as if making his way through a grove of trees. Someone lay face down in the snow, blood pooling around them. A young woman, twirling her earbud between her fingers, again and again, her face was red and puffy and her eyes wide. She muttered emptily. “He’s breathing.” Her voice was distant, as if she was in shock, eyes transfixed on the blood that pooled in the snow._

_“There's no doctor. On TV someone is always a doctor...but no one is. We don’t...we...we called 911. They said not to move him, that he could die if we do. They said they’d be here soon.”_

_All was silent, the snowfall muffling the sounds of the city. All Geralt could hear was the unsteady, wet breathing of the man in the snow._ _Geralt stumbled forward and sunk to hide knees. He turned Jaskier over trying not to get lost in the sickening purple shade of his lips, like a deep bruise or the blood that stained his face, his throat, his chest-fuck it was everywhere. Looking over his shoulder briefly, he immediately spotted the threadbare quilt that covered their bedroom window on the third floor. It had been within sight the whole time. Something dark slithered through to the front of his mind. Had Jaskier looked up at the window? Had he known just how close Geralt had been the whole time?_ _The rattle that shook Jaskier’s chest ceased suddenly and Geralt’s heart dropped into his stomach._

_“No. No, no, no. Don’t you dare.” He was screaming now, his fist balled in the bloody fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. “Jask, come on. Stay awake. God no, Jaskier...please...just a little longer. Wake up.” He pressed his lips to the cold, bloodied skin of Jaskier’s forehead and muttered something quietly but his words were lost in the wailing of sirens._

* * *

Geralt watched through the doorway as the hospital staff crowded around the bed, ushering him and Nedra out of the room before pulling the curtain closed. Her voice pulled Geralt from his sinking thoughts, the nightmare that was his reality. 

An hour passed by in silence.

Then two. 

“Do you believe in heaven?” Nedra Pankratz looked on from the hall with disdain and disgust at the curtain that separated her from her youngest son. Geralt straightened himself from where he had been slumping in the doorframe and looked around him, certain Nedra was addressing anyone other than him. They had known each other for several days and he was certain that he was the last person on earth she wanted to talk to.

But they were alone, so he cleared his throat and answered her cautiously.

“I’m… I'm not sure.” He said finally, his voice gruff and low, pulling his crossed arms tighter around him.

“Well, I do.” Geralt thought she sounded oddly bitter at the confession of believing in some sort of paradisiacal afterlife. “It's a shame. Heaven’s wasted on the dead.” Nedra quipped bitterly, tugging on the hem of her cardigan. Her shrill voice pulled taut in her throat.

“He’s not dead.” Geralt growled, but it was tired, pained. 

"No, I suppose...not that it would matter. It’s not my place to judge, that’s up to God." She huffed, the cruelty masking the pain in her voice. "I’ve come to tell you to say your goodbyes. I've begun the necessary preparations. I don't want to spend a moment here any longer than I have to."

"That's your _son_." Geralt's voice was indignant, bold with utter disbelief.

" _My son_ died years ago and I mourned for him." Her words were venomous, her eyes full of hate. "I don't even recognize that..." she searched for a good word, her hand waving frantically towards the room. When she spoke again her voice was quiet and cold. " _That_ is not my son." 

The tension was palpable, Geralt waited for her to speak.

“I gave him all I could but it wasn't enough for Julian, it never was. After all the damage he’s done, after everything he put me through, after everything he put _this family_ through.” She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s so very like him to spit in my face one final time, to drag me to this shitstain to endure _this_.” 

“You fuc-” A hand gripped his shoulder tightly as he felt himself launch forward. Instinctually and blinded by rage. Lambert held his arm tight and Eskel stepped between Geralt and Nedra his arms folded tight across his chest. 

“Good evening ma’am. You must be Jaskier’s mother.” He held out his large, burly hand for her to shake, fighting the urge to grin stupidly at how she recoiled when she heard him say _‘Jaskier’_. She looked at Eskel’s hand in near disbelief. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Eskel and this here is Lambert,” He hitched his thumb back toward the man who gripped Geralt’s shoulder tight. “I see you’ve met my brother Geralt already. Charming, isn’t he?” He beamed at her and she pursed her lips so tight the color vanished from them. “I thought we were meeting here at _seven_ ,” Eskel said to Geralt, the forced smile still pulling at the scars on his face, his eyes still trained intently on Nedra.

“I-” 

Everyone stopped and turned to the sound of the curtail sliding along the track in the ceiling. A doctor stepped out, pulling it closed again. Geralt recognized her as a member of the ICU staff and felt a twinge of shame that after seeing her for weeks, he still didn’t know her name. She walked up to him, pulling her gloves off and discarding them in the trash nearest the door. 

“Geralt. Mrs. Pankratz.” She looked expectantly at Lambert and Eskel. 

“Oh. Uh...these are my brothers.” Geralt said, stiffly, choosing not to turn around knowing full-well what stupid grins his brothers would be wearing. 

She nodded in affirmation and turned back to glance at Nedra and then Geralt her face clinical and unreadable. “Julian has been stabilized. While we’re unsure of what triggered the panic episode. We haven’t seen a drastic change to his condition after stabilization. He is still only breathing on his own about 30% of the time. We have chosen to extubate him for several reasons, including the risk of lung collapse present. Mrs. Pankratz, I understand that you intend to have your son removed from life support, is that correct?” 

“It is.” 

Geralt could hear Eskel’s palm preemptively move to rest on Lambert’s chest and he felt the other grip his shoulder, a reminder to keep himself in check. 

“And it has not yet been processed because his father has not yet signed them. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” She practically hissed.

“Because of this, we will continue to treat Julian like any other patient, which means that any procedures, processes, or treatments deemed necessary to save his life will be administered until the request for removal from life support has been processed. Once it has been processed and approved we will set a time to remove him from life support. ask all family members to leave the room while we do so, normally we would extubate then but circumstances led us to do so earlier. Once Julian is no longer on life support we will invite you back into his room. You may elect to have a nurse present to administer morphine if he is showing signs of extreme discomfort.” She didn’t look at Nedra as she spoke, her eyes fixed on Geralt now. “He is still on oxygen for the time being. We’ve given him something to counter the paralytic. You can see him now if you’d like _but,_ ” She looked at them sternly. “Only one person at a time, he’s unconscious and I won’t risk a repeat of what just happened.”

Geralt turned to Nedra and gestured toward the door. She looked him dead in the eyes and shook her head. Her voice was a shaking whisper. “I’m sure he doesn’t wish to see me anymore than I wish to see him. Besides I have nothing to say. Our final words were exchanged years ago.” She straightened herself and without another word she wrapped her woolen peacoat around her, tying it at the waist and turning to the doctor. “I will be in town for a few more days, notify me of any significant changes. I will be in contact with his father regarding the missing paperwork.” And with that she turned on her heels and marched down the hallway.

“Go on then.” Eskel gave Geralt a gentle shove on the shoulder. “We’ll be right here.”

“Wait. We will?” Lambert questioned. 

* * *

Numbly and without another word Geralt left his brothers standing in the hall and made his way back to the curtain. His entire life had been here, in _this_ room, in _this_ chair by _this_ window for weeks. As he sat in the hideous and rather uncomfortable arm chair he had the distinct feeling that one way, or another, that it would end soon. The thought made his chest tighten. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Geralt muttered and it twisted his heart painfully. He thumbed the IV catheter on the back of Jaskier’s hand as he thought of everytime that Jaskier had laid awake throughout their lives together waiting patiently for the sunrise to roll over and run his hand through Geralt’s hair and say those same words to him. Now there was Jaskier, lips pale and chapped, no longer hidden behind layers of tape and tubing, a single plastic tube was strung over his ears and to his nose now. With his other hand Geralt gently brushed the hair from Jaskier’s eyes, revealing the deep purple that pooled beneath them. He thought about those eyes now, once so bright and haunting. It felt like years since he had seen those sea glass eyes since they had seen him. “I brought your guitar.” Geralt tenderly took Jaskier’s hand and slid the body of the guitar under it, careful not to catch the IV or tug the wires that led from his pulse oximeter. 

He stayed for a time, reading from the notebook, teasing Jaskier at some of the more ridiculous lines and his own self-deprecating commentary that was scribbled in the margins of the book. Jaskier would’ve been horrified to hear them uttered aloud. Geralt could picture him scrambling, limbs flailing to retrieve the book from Geralt’s hands.

Words and bars of music were scratched and scribbled in every type of pen and pencil imaginable, some looked like they may have even been crayon. The notes were impossible to follow, scatterbrained and hectic and covering every surface of the page. As he thumbed through, his eyes caught one blank page near the back of the book, nothing but a small note scribbled in the corner. Tears stung his eyes. It was his handwriting, he had written it in the notebook nearly a year previous for Jaskier to find. Jaskier had never said a word about it, but a single piece of clear scotch tape had been pressed over the writing to preserve it from the artistic flurry that consumed the rest of the book. 

_I love you._

He ran his fingers delicately over the smooth matte tape and he muttered the words out loud. 

“I love you.” 

* * *

Geralt woke sometime later to the sound of Lambert’s obnoxiously loud voice calling from the hallway and a kink in his neck that shot pain down to his elbow. He growled, attempting to blink away the sleep. When he tried to lift his head it was met with unexpected resistance. Something cold rested on the crown of his head. 

“Geralt, you dumb ass, wake up,” Lambert shouted again, dutifully staying in the hall as he was instructed. His obnoxious yelling was attracting the ire of the tired nurses who bustled around the hall. He turned to one and muttered an apology with a sheepish grin. 

“Fuck off.” Geralt growled, blinking away the tiredness that clouded his eyes. As he turned his glare from Lambert to the bed his breath hitched in his throat. Sea glass blue glistened back at him, bright in the low, yellow ambient light left on throughout the night. Nestled in the deep purple, against the pale skin they shone even brighter. The cold hand, tangled in wires, moved to cup Geralt’s face. Jaskier’s voice was raw and hoarse, barely audible and completely unrecognizable and it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“H-hey there, sleepyhead.” 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Sloom has always been one of my favorite words, though it is rarely used or understood conversationally where I live. I feel it fit perfectly with this story and its themes.
> 
> ENDNOTES CONTAIN SPOILERS: 
> 
> Additional warnings to note: Fic contains minor depictions of violence and hospitalization, some reference to medical procedures such as intubation, extubation, and tracheostomy.
> 
> This fic is set in modern America. Why America? Because I have never lived anywhere in Europe and can only imagine how painful it would be if I tried to describe day-to-day modern life in a country I haven't lived in. My understanding of next-of-kin rights versus the rights of friends and family (specifically significant others who are not legally wed) comes from bioethics and personal experience. In America medical law is a combination of state law and federal law so some things vary place to place. Take this into account and try not to have a conniption fit at my poor descriptions of such things. My limited knowledge of intubation, extubation, life support, and post-procedural talks with doctors all come from personal experience. I am in no way a doctor. I'm trying my best, be nice to me, please.


End file.
